


A Grief Observed

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, archive warning: death and bread are two sides of the same coin, archive warning: idc what planet we’re on, archive warning: speculation on the taste of death blogging, archive warning: you can pry em dashes from my cold dead hands, archive warning: you’re never gonna take the f word away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: The truth of the matter is that both of them die. Nothing is as they thought it would be.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14





	A Grief Observed

**Author's Note:**

> Obvious spoilers for TROS. First Star Wars fic ever, which… at almost 30 and with several different fandoms under my belt is truly remarkable. Don’t let the title and summary scare you, this has an entirely happy ending. I know pree-cisely what I’m about.

> “It is hard to have patience with people who say, ‘There is no death’ or ‘Death doesn’t matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible.” • C.S. Lewis, _A Grief Observed_

⥇

The presumptive triumph inherent to the return of the self? Painfully short-lived. It is brief and blinding and there is a feeling akin to invincibility singing in his veins. A humming that echoes in the gruff tenor of what could only be his father’s voice. How it must have felt when the heroes made yet another daring escape—against all the odds. The euphoria that occurs when you have begun to think that maybe, just _maybe_ , you’ve finally _won_. It makes the loss so much worse than he could have ever imagined. Not when you’ve gotten so _close_ to having everything you never even knew you wanted. And that’s half the battle, isn’t it? Knowing what you want. Like it’s easy.

The bodily pain he feels climbing out of the pit is little more than a mild annoyance compared with what could only be the loss of _her_ —as if his bones have collapsed into the place where his heart _must_ have been; as if he has been unmoored and his body has no choice but to follow him into nothingness. They had intentionally (spitefully) shut each other out before, but this is… not that. He cannot yet bring himself to form the only word in his vocabulary that might define this particular absence.

He tries to focus on the pain instead—far easier than the alternative. The word he will not even _think_. Rather he will find blissful agony in the way his leg dangles heavy and useless beneath his knee; the loose gravel beneath his fingertips; the mildly worrisome taste of blood in his mouth. In this respect, the Dark had never been more right. No, this— _this_ is better.

⥇

He emerges into an eerie quiet. Aside from his labored breathing and the occasional crumbling of the surrounding cavern, the silence is stark. She is small and still in the distance— _unbearable_. He drops his shattered kneecap to the ground for momentum and presses forward. Thankfully, it hurts. The skin of his palms _burn_. The iron is heavier on his tongue. Perfect.

Not… _death_ —this cannot _possibly_ be death. Certainly if it was he would not be here. Dragging his weight against its tide. The Jedi have been known to talk about death as if it were an old friend. On this point especially, Ben is not certain that he and the Jedi will ever reach an agreement. Not having seen this image of her, indelibly left; far, far smaller than both he and the universe knows her to be.

When he finally reaches her side he is utterly helpless to resist the wounded animal gnawing away at whatever remains of the cage that had once housed his heart—a creature of too many wants to name, often vile and ill-conceived. At this moment it is in want of one _single_ thing. A desire which it has _briefly_ expressed only once or twice before. All the more torturous for its sheer ease and _possibility_. 

_Touch her hand_ , it begs, _please_. It is perhaps the least offensive request it has ever made, so light and indiscernible a thing as to have not happened at all, and yet the urgency is _acute_ in a way he has hardly known. Not in the false warmth of her hut, nor in those final moments aboard the Finalizer. Neither of these times had the beast inside of him _wanted_ as desperately as it does now. It is as if her stillness has provoked a question of whether or not it had ever really been alive before now, and if _this_ is life then surely they must have it.

The feeling of having her entirely in his arms is both a comfort and a torment—a cruel caricature of what his earlier victories had allowed him to imagine this moment might be. It’s not just the flush of _rightness_ , it is indeed an inescapable fact of his birth (always, _always_ ); the discordant footnote of every single story: Yes, happy and triumphant they might be, but there’s a cost. Always. Ben had never felt quite settled with the apparent inevitability of the cost. He knew that he was _supposed_ to. The Light _accepts_ the cost—embraces it even, but Ben, much to Luke’s consternation, never much cared for it.

And yet with the nauseatingly full weight of her against his chest, he only _briefly_ hesitates. Not out of fear for himself but with worry for _her_ , for how she might blame herself. _But the universe_ , he thinks, _it is so bleak a thing without her._ And she has friends now, he knows that she does, for however much he’s tried to belay his own bitterness and jealousies. She will not be alone. And she is too full of life (with so little of it lived) to stop now. His hand spans the breadth of her waist and he _inhales_ , his lungs crackling—he _exhales_ , and whatever is left of him swims through a milky darkness, looking only for the shape of his heart.

⥇

She’s said his name before (multiple times, and often very much against his wishes). That’s not new. What _is_ new is _him_ —he knows, _Yes, that’s right, I’m_ **_Ben_**. Perhaps he never really stopped being _Ben_ , and it was absurd and naive of him to think otherwise. It’s only when he hears his name on her lips that he fills and fills and fills. His head tilts in a vague impression of what could only be a nod, as if to say, _“Yes, yes, that’s me,”_ like a child whose parent has playfully asked, “And who are _you_ , little one? Are you _Ben_?” _Yes_ , his heart stutters with a fragile sigh (newly made, yet cracked in all the most vulnerable places). _Yes._

Then there’s the almost alarming fact of her lips against his. He’s hardly adjusted to being Ben again before having to contend with the knowledge of how her nose feels against the apple of his cheek—how she tastes. Does death linger on her lips? If it does he can only apologize for his earlier grumbling; he was mistaken, for death has left only a familiar sweetness behind. Like a tea he used to drink, or a favorite kind of bread he had long since stopped allowing himself to eat. Then again, maybe he’s entered the stage of death where rational thought ceases to work. _A friend_. 

He grins. He falls.

⥇

Ben Solo does in fact _die_ for approximately 10 seconds. Rey is quite decidedly less than fond of the feeling that follows. She has felt grief before. This is not that—it is something more. Something catastrophic. In his 10 second absence she is devastated by a sensation she had _thought_ long buried. The loneliness that had consumed her in a life she had lived before all _this_ —

 _And is that even what it was_ , she can’t help but wonder, _was that life?_

Even after Han had died; after Luke and Leia had slipped away, despite all that loss he had remained. A constant spark she both cherished and despised. Ever since their connection had been startled awake in the silence of space, the emptiness she had long accepted as being _hers_ was suddenly less so. The small, feral, barely a girl at all inside of her had reached out into the void and found a hand for the taking—no less savage but with a similarly desperate grip. And it hadn’t let go. 

Not until approximately 10 seconds ago.

10 seconds is, in the shared experience of most living things, brief and inconsequential. But over the course of these particular few seconds—impossibly loud in their reticence to continue; painful and _suffocating_ , she _finally_ knows. 

It was something to cherish.

⥇

 _Who grieves for what is essentially a disembodied handshake?_ ** _You do._** The tinny, childlike voice in her memory that she can barely recall being hers; hoarse with disuse and grit, it snarls at her in resentment. For being _exposed_ like this, for daring to give the comfort a name. **_Love_** , she whispers back, **_it’s love._** She hears him take a breath and as time sees fit to gift her with one more second it’s as if her heart has only just begun to beat.

“Ben,” she whispers, _again_ , seemingly the only word she’s managed to utter in what feels like eons—watching his eyes twitch beneath closed lids, his brow slightly furrowed. Belatedly she recognizes what can only be the sounds of the temple continuing to crumble around them; the echo of laser fire and the departing fleet. Practically she knows that they should probably work on making their escape. Impractically, however, she has found nothing so captivating as the slow and blessedly steady movement of his chest.

“Come on, Ben,” she says again, a bit louder this time. The pain he’s in is notable, but when she reaches for the Force inside herself it resists; wrung out and immovable. “So much for that,” she mutters, moving a hand to frame his face, cold in a way that makes the back of her throat feel tight and unpleasant. She gasps at his ragged inhale, a soft moan. “ _Finally_ ,” she breathes, an edge of hysteria in her voice, “Ben, _please_. I know it was a good kiss and everything but—”

His tongue darts out along his pale lips and she holds her breath as his eyes flutter open and he manages a weak smile. “Y-you wish.”

“No, I _know_ ,” she laughs, sweeping some hair away from his forehead. “I tried healing some of what’s broken,” she explains, “but there’s… nothing. It’s quiet.”

Despite the great deal of discomfort she _knows_ he’s in, he still manages to give a _knowing_ nod, and she’d roll her eyes and give him a slap on the chest if matters felt only slightly less dire. In an ironic twist she briefly considers what it might take to live a life of just _somewhat_ less urgency. The sigh that escapes betrays the exhaustion she would do anything not to feel, and the ships that she _hopes_ have survived the collapse suddenly feel _lightyears_ away.

“Give it,” he winces and her heart gives a distant, painful _clench_ , “...time. It’ll be back.”

An impressively sized bit of rock hits the ground at her back and she jumps, taking stock of what’s left of their surroundings. “We have to go,” she says decidedly, wedging her arm beneath his shoulders, “I know you were _dead_ a second ago but if we don’t get out of here the both of us will be right back where we started.”

“Just—”

“ _Don’t_ even think about it,” she interrupts, her eyes darkening, “You _are_ leaving with me. I don’t care how many stupid ribs you’ve broken.”

⥇

That’s the thing about Death, as he’s come to understand it, anyway—it lingers. Possibly for efficiency’s sake, which he can appreciate. Regardless, the events of the last hour hang in the air like a thick fog and it’s hard to keep from wondering whether or not they’ve really managed it this time. The Force remains a negative space inside of them both, held open only by the awareness of their bodies resting against each other at opposing points of pain and strength.

Their “heroic escape” is slow going (another narrative detail that was _not_ what a younger Ben was promised), with little in the way of conversation. Rey can’t seem to resist checking in with him every minute or so, as if she has gleaned some of what he cannot bring himself to say. That truthfully, a part of him preferred death—that maybe it would all be better that way. His leg _screams_ and his head _pounds_ and there’s all these complicated, impending realities to consider that are not quite as simple as Death had promised.

But then there’s a girl at his side propping up the full, ridiculous weight of him. A girl that he had been dreaming about before he had even known who she was. She gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze and quietly reminds him that they’re _almost there_ , that it’s _just a little longer_. He spares a glance at the look of unrepentant determination on her tired, dirty face (somehow still lovely in a way he has yet to fully articulate), and as they move further and further away, the cold hand of Death sees fit to take it’s hand off his shoulder.

⥇

He doesn’t go back with her. Though there _are_ legitimate arguments to be made either way, and the two of them do in fact muster the energy to engage in both. Whatever they decide very much stems from the question, _Who would want him there?_ (“I would,” she says quietly, _earnestly_.) What good would it do them, _her_ allies, he feels it important to point out, to see that Kylo Ren had somehow escaped the death he so rightly deserved? 

“Only a few people even _know_ ,” she reminds him. That Ben Solo is Kylo Ren was a detail fairly well kept from The Resistance at large, which is a fair point… and yet. And yet there is such a feeling of _regret_ that will not fade and it seems as if there will _always_ be a war inside of him. Between what has been deemed Right and what it is he _wants_. He has never felt so much like Han Solo as he does now; his desire to be free and unburdened of purpose more tempting than it’s ever been. Although it must be said, his father _was_ known to engage with an inconvenient streak of righteousness from time to time. It was what got him killed after all.

He _is_ his father’s son. His own sense of righteousness is what led him back to Exegol in the first place. “But that,” he argues, finding it hard to look her in the eye, “that was for _you_.” Yes, he is in some ways far more similar to Han Solo than he ever wanted to be, but more so perhaps in his capacity for selfishness than what is _Right_.

There is an uncomfortable truth that they _both_ know. That there are some people practically _dying_ to see him—would do unspeakable things for a moment alone with him. And they wouldn’t be wrong. “ _Fuck_ them,” she snaps, “they can find someone else.” It might be the _heroic_ thing to do—the most Jedi-like thing to do, but he was never a very good one. And he’s only human, but still, he has to know—

> “Are you disappointed?”
> 
> “No,” she answers after an agonizing moment of silence, “No, Ben.”
> 
> In a relatively new development he can only hope becomes habit, she rests a hand against his face. He might be more suspicious of the answer were it not for the warmth of her touch—the small, tired smile that crosses her face. So many people have lied to him. Not her.

Maybe Rey’s not much of a Jedi either. It’s not that she’s soured on the notion of justice or accountability, it’s just that she’s reasonably certain she’s lost _enough_ (not that there had been much for her to lose to begin with). Then there’s the fact of her having been inside his head. It’s not the most pleasant of places. And given how adamant he is about their spending time apart it seems likely that he’s got his own sort of punishment in mind (part of which would seem to be denying himself _her_ ). She knows that she’s probably being selfish but really, hasn’t she earned the right to be?

“It’s not forever,” he starts, even though he knows how the words have already begun to sour and knot themselves inside her, “I—” 

He can’t bring himself to say the word “promise,” not when she’s looking at him like _that_ , so he drops a kiss to her forehead instead, tries not to let the light sniffling convince him to stay. “I’ll always be right here,” he murmurs against her temple.

“I’d prefer you right _here_ ,” she grumbles, giving a firm tug on his sweater.

“I will be,” he insists, taking a clarifying step back, “soon.”

⥇

In his first week or so away he doesn’t feel _free_ in the way he had hoped. He wonders if it’s too late—if there can be no real freedom with recognition. Ben Solo. Kylo Ren. Both burdened with a history and an expectation he’s not sure how to escape. 

> “I think they’re both secret romantics,” Rey’s laughter bouncing around the cockpit, “so many _imaginings_ , Ben.”
> 
> Of the way things _should be_ , is what she means. He knows that’s what she means and he knows that she’s right; that it’s childish and maybe he should start living his life based on what _is_ , it’s just that—
> 
> “It doesn’t seem very _fair_ , does it,” he barks and she goes silent. It’s not directed at her, she knows, but since Exegol it seems he goes out of his way to reign in his anger and that doesn’t seem quite right either.
> 
> “No,” she agrees, “it’s not.”

When Rey says “Ben,” he thinks he might know. Who he is now; if freedom is a state of being he’s allowed to have. But she deserves better than someone who _thinks_ they _might_ know. He wants to be the Ben that exists in the sound of her voice—the one that doesn’t want to know the odds. That pulls himself from the depths of a cavernous pit to save the woman he loves.

> “I want _all_ of you,” she whispers as she drifts to sleep, “even the bad parts.”

It seems silly in retrospect, but going their separate ways is more anxiety inducing than either of them had been able to fully anticipate. Not only is there the fact of their _deaths_ to contend with, but the Force is less than pleased. As if the _yearning_ wasn’t bad enough, there’s this permanent _ache_ with no evident cure short of their being reunited. His desire to be with her, inconvenient Force-related discomfort or no, is almost enough to cut his self-imposed exile short. But the knowledge that _any_ decision he makes from here on out might yet again be at the whim of this _mystical_ entity that takes away just as much as it gives? He doesn’t want to give it the satisfaction.

> “That’s ridiculous,” her voice crackling through the ship’s speaker, “I don’t know _much_ , but I don’t think it’s quite as… _alive_ as you’re describing.”
> 
> “Doesn’t matter,” he insists, “we’ll be together when _we_ want.”
> 
> There’s a pause on the other end, but he knows exactly what she _wants_ to say, that _she_ was ready from the moment they’d left Exegol, that _he_ was the one that felt it necessary to leave. “You deserve a choice too,” he says quietly, “so you know. For sure.”
> 
> “ _Ben_ —” 
> 
> But the heartfelt, understanding tone in her voice is just too much for him to bear and he makes some pathetic excuse about an asteroid field before hanging up.

Turns out that navigating the duality of having been both dead _and_ alive is trickier than he thought it would be. Generally speaking, most deaths are permanent, rather mitigating the inevitable bout of existential wrestling that would likely occur. One such delightful side effect being the inability to have a decent night’s sleep—due to deeply troubling dreams or insatiable hunger, there’s a new kind of restlessness coursing through the heart of him; a deep, paralyzing fear of stillness that Rey can feel all the way down to her toes.

She understands why he thinks they should take some time. Having lived a life where so many choices have been made for you? And _this_ choice in particular, what feels like will be one of the last of its kind; a _monumental_ thing for them both, he _needs_ to know. _Have I done this on my own?_ It _does_ make her heart ache, to think that he worries her feelings are somehow temporary, but she can’t fault him for his past hurts, just as he can’t blame her for the same.

> “I think I preferred being nothing,” she confesses about a month after he had left her with the feeling of her heart dropping into her stomach. Left her wondering if he would ever come back, if she had _ever_ been worth saving.
> 
> She’s not quite sure where he is, but as the feeling of his clothing against her bare back would seem to indicate, it’s _definitely_ not in a bath. “How uncomfortable are you right now?”
> 
> “It’s not… _great_.”
> 
> She manages to eke out a weak laugh, but the somberness of her words lingers in the steam that cocoons them both. The word “nothing” a haunting echo. A brutal reminder of what she has always feared she _is_ —unloved, unwanted.
> 
> “You can be whoever you want to be,” he says with such _fierceness_ she can feel it in her bones. “ _Never_ let anyone tell you different. Not even me.”
> 
> “ _Especially_ if it’s you,” she smiles, marveling at how they got here—to this wonderful intimacy they had both lost for an exquisitely painful few seconds.
> 
> The water ripples around her knees when he turns around but never seems to splash over the sides of the tub, and she flinches with the reminder of his absence; wonders just how far away he actually is. His fingertips follow a gentle trail along her exposed neck and shoulder, and she shivers from the warmth of his breath as he presses a kiss to her flushed skin.
> 
> “Correct.”

⥇

In the end they only manage about half the year, and their separation ends with very little in the way of planning. He tells her to meet him on Ejolus, a small planet located in the Inner Rim. He doesn’t remember _much_ , only that his mother had taken him there when he was young and he finds the vague memory comforting (a rarity that Rey encourages him to pursue). It was where the survivors of Alderaan’s destruction had fled, and what had started as a place of deep pain and grief had become vital and _alive_.

> “Despite everything,” she says with a quiet air of contentment, both hands wrapped around his arm as they stroll through the city.
> 
> “I think that might’ve been her point,” he reflects, suddenly taking note of just how _loud_ it is. How crowded the streets, how many children dart in and out of stalls.
> 
> “Sounds like Leia.”
> 
> Thinking or speaking of his mother hadn’t made him smile often, but it comes easy when he hums in agreement and drops a kiss to the top of Rey’s head.

They’re sitting in the back of a bakeshop when he finally realizes what a colossal _idiot_ he’s been. In the back of a bakeshop run by an old woman of indeterminate age who keeps giving him _knowing_ glances that he tries _desperately_ to ignore. In the midst of a cloud of flour that floats in the heated air; with the overpowering smell of yeast in his nose. As she pulls the bread apart with a satisfying crack and her eyes fall shut with a _moan_ of pleasure reminding him, yet again, how _incredibly_ stupid he is. That’s when he realizes. _Unbelievably fucking stupid._

Giving up bread was a stupid idea too.

“Well, _I_ certainly could’ve told you that,” she laughs, her cheeks round and flushed.

It makes sense in an almost insultingly obvious way that being dead would make you _hungrier_. It doesn’t make the sudden intensity with which he wants to devour both her _and_ the bread in her hands any less startling. He attempts nonchalance, but in consideration of the fact that the art of subtlety had been entirely lost on him ( _Thanks, dad_ ), he manages to give an impression so severe that she’s straightening her spine based on the look on his face _alone_.

“Ben?”

It's still hard to quantify how much he loves to hear his name on her lips—short and easy like an inhale; instinctual and inevitable and it takes all of his very considerable strength to stop himself from living in the memory of her wretched stillness. _Exhale._

“I’m sorry,” is what he finally manages to say, mesmerized by the crumbs lingering on her lips, “I’m an idiot.” He’s kissing her before she can ask what for or likely agree that yes, he _is_ an idiot; his heart slamming against his ribs, offended on her behalf, wondering why it seems to have taken him so damn long to _come back to life_.

“Choosing you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done,” her eyes flashing with confusion, “but it _was_ a choice.” As if everything he’d gone through in the time since he’d swept her into his arms on Takodana had been _easy_. As if the path that had led them to the back of this little shop had been anything but a near _constant_ struggle—hell, the only _easy_ thing about her seems to be how carelessly she says his name. Light. As if it hardly weighs anything at all.

“Even Death couldn’t keep me away from you,” he smirks, “I never stood a chance.”

She’s out of her chair with her arms thrown around his neck before he can blink, his quick reflexes the only thing that saves them from being very publicly sprawled across the floor in a mess of emotion and bread flour. There’s a vague tutting of disapproving patrons behind them, but he is far, far too enamored with the way she’s settled herself in his lap to really notice.

“You are absolutely incredible at saying the wrong thing,” she chuckles through the tears he can feel against his neck, “…I love you for it.”

 _Yes_ , his heart whimpers. Thumping mightily and unequivocally in his chest—without fear, how it might’ve done before he knew how badly it could break. As if it might never break again. It _wants_ as it always has, but the urge to temper it is nowhere to be found.

“Ben,” she murmurs, as if she’s _heard_ the damn thing. As if it had sprouted lips and teeth and a tongue and spoke aloud. Tightening her hold on his shoulders like the shared thread they’ve always known is there has been given a firm, no nonsense tug.

And he’s suddenly struck by a… memory or an idea of a place he cannot quite name or recall. Like there’s a door in his head, opened at an enticing crack to let in a slip of light. And there’s a sensation of falling; of being lost in the dark and looking for _something_ and then, quite unexpectedly and with no shortage of pain _there she was_. With large, wide eyes staring back at him with something like anger at the sheer _audacity_ of his having gone and _died_ like that.

It’s probably not all that important that he remember, only that he _knows_ he must have found whatever it was he had lost and that his heart would not beat with such voraciousness were she not in his arms.

 _The presumptive triumph inherent to the return of the self?_ Agonizingly and wonderfully made.

**Author's Note:**

> [Ejolus](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Ejolus): I’m pretending the refugees thrived, don’t @ me. You’re lucky I’ve referred to the canonical universe at all.
> 
> [“...fearfully and wonderfully made”](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+139%3A14&version=NIV): I accidentally did a play on Psalm 139:14, I cannot take credit.
> 
> One final note I forgot to mention! I can be found on Tumblr [@starlessness](https://starlessness.tumblr.com) or [@hencethebravery](https://hencethebravery.tumblr.com).


End file.
